


love is all that's left to lose

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks of Arthur last night, on his doorstep after six months without a word; the way he put his palm against Eames’ cheek, fingers in his hair, and kissed him like he’d never been gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love is all that's left to lose

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Allman Brown's _Ancient Light_

Arthur sends him out for coffee in the morning, pushing him through the door with a demanding hand in the small of his back.

“An Americano,” he orders as Eames clatters down the stairs; “None of that syrup shit, Eames, I swear to God.”

Outside the air is crisp and cool: autumn in the city. On the street people are wrapped up tight in scarves and thick coats, hands shoved deep into pockets to protect from the creeping chill. Eames turns his own collar up against the bite of the wind.

London is loud, even this early, pavements crowded with tourists in their bright coats, their oversized backpacks, voices rising up over the roar of cars and honking of horns. Eames bypasses the cafes on his street, the Starbucks and the other chains, and heads for the quiet place he likes to visit when he’s having trouble working.

The bell jangles as he steps inside. It’s quiet in here, no noise except the low murmur of voices, the sound of cutlery clinking against china. A few of the people inside glance his way, but Eames has been coming here long enough that they just nod at him and return to their conversations.

He orders the Americano, his own tea. The barista raises an eyebrow at him, surprised and curious.

“You’ve never ordered more than one drink before,” she says as she counts out his change. “Got a guest?”

Eames gives her a half-smile. “Something like that,” he says, and goes to collect his drinks.

He detours through Hyde Park on the way back, enjoying the cold air burning its way down into his lungs, the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot. Here they are orange and cheerful, spreading out in an endless carpet, and Eames watches the dogs and children play amongst them, kicking up great clouds of colour that flutter and twirl to the sound of shrieking laughs and growling barks.

He passes a couple on a bench, heads tilted together, sharing secrets as lovers do. Eames watches the man touch the woman’s face and lean in to kiss her: once, twice, sweet and gentle. He thinks of Arthur last night, on his doorstep after six months without a word; the way he put his palm against Eames’ cheek, fingers in his hair, and kissed him like he’d never been gone.

His heart clenches sharply, and he looks away, embarrassed at himself. He walks the rest of the way back with his eyes on the ground, the warmth from the drinks slowly seeping through to his skin.

In the apartment, Arthur is wearing one of his shirts, the blue fabric brushing the tops of his thighs, cuffs loose around his wrists as he fiddles with something at the stove. In the light Eames can see what he couldn’t last night: the tan on Arthur’s skin, the lightness to his hair, the looseness in his limbs. He didn’t look like that before he left, when Eames said the things Arthur wasn’t ready to hear and he wound himself so tight with tension that Eames was sure he was going to snap into a thousand pieces.

“I made eggs,” Arthur tells him as he sets the coffee down on the counter. “They’re a bit burnt, but they’ll be alright with some ketchup on them.”

Eames catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror: cheeks flushed, hair blown back, the beginning of a scowl creeping onto his face. “I don’t like eggs,” he tells his reflection and hears Arthur’s spatula fall against the counter.

“I could’ve sworn –” He trails off, shaking his head ruefully. “Sorry, guess I forgot.”

Eames wonders who Arthur’s been making eggs for, who he could’ve confused with him. He opens his mouth to ask, but when Arthur turns the shirt slips from his shoulder, exposing the fragile line of his collarbone, the taut muscle of his shoulder, and the words slip from Eames as fast as they came.

The plates clatter when Arthur sets them down. Eames peers at them: scrambled eggs, with what looks like the last of Eames’ spinach and tomatoes mixed in. He’ll have to go shopping later; he wonders what Arthur would want for dinner.

“How long are you staying for?” he asks, trying to sound disinterested, and cringes when it comes out cautious, hopeful.

Arthur hums noncommittally as he slips onto a stool at the island, the bare soles of his feet brushes against the floor. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“I’d have you forever,” Eames says, only half joking, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur’s hands still for a moment, cutlery hovering over his plate, before he begins to scoop up food.

“Sounds good to me,” he says, but his mouth is tight and uncomfortable where it should be an easy curve.

Eames takes a deep breath, sets his fork down and reaches for his tea instead. He can feel the tension in the air, lingering from the last time they did this, and it makes him wary, uncomfortable.

If Arthur can feel the gulf between them, he does a good job of acting like he doesn’t. “If you don’t like eggs,” he says around a mouthful, “Why do you have them in your fridge?”

“Baking,” Eames tells him.

Arthur makes an amused sound. “You bake?”

Eames shrugs. He bakes whenever he can: bread and muffins and cookies, gives them to his elderly neighbours and the single mother upstairs and the little girl who holds bake sales at her school. It’s soothing, something productive to do with his hands when he feels like punching something until his knuckles bleed.

When his plate is empty, Arthur finally reaches out for the coffee on the counter. He fiddles with it, adds the milk and sharp dash of sugar that Eames remembers he likes. When he looks up from the steady movement of his hands, Arthur is watching him, eyes curious.

“What?”

Eames shrugs. “Nothing,” he says. “Just you.”

Arthur grins, just as sharp as Eames remembers. He stands slowly, the stool scraping roughly over the floor. Eames watches him silently as he steps forward, as Arthur’s shadow creeps over him, along the line of his legs, up the buttons of his shirt, until the outline of his head rests over Eames’ chest. He reaches out to put a heavy hand on Eames’ shoulder, fingers digging in tight, and Eames rises to meet him, wraps his arms around Arthur, presses his face into his hair. Beneath his hands Arthur feels solid and real and not even close to disappearing.

“I missed you,” Eames murmurs into his hair.

Arthur smiles against his neck, lips soft and dry. “You too,” he whispers into his skin, and Eames tries to tamp down on the hope that swells in his chest.

He doesn’t know it yet but Arthur will leave again in the winter. When Eames walks through the park, the lovers, the carpet of leaves will be gone too. The bare trees will sway against the grey sky and the sigh he breathes out will hang frosty white in the air.  


End file.
